Presumption of Guilt (20 page)

“It's not that,” Willy came back, surprised by how Dan's tone had stung him. “I just meant I didn't really see you as a CI anyhow. More like an ally.”

“Well, now you can consider me a nodding acquaintance.”

Willy's eyes narrowed. “You've made your point. I still have a vested interest in your safety. I put you in this mess.”

“Nice of you to say,” Dan said honestly. “If I need you, I'll reach out. Until then, please leave us alone.” He stuck out his hand—an unusual gesture for him, as Kunkle well knew. “Deal?”

“Deal,” Willy said quietly, shaking hands mournfully.

Dan walked away. Willy watched him go, hoping it wouldn't be for the last time.

*   *   *

Dressed in worn jeans and a baseball cap, sitting at the wheel of his battered, secondhand pickup truck, David Spinney was parked along a darkened backstreet in Bellows Falls, a village of roughly one square mile, whose problems—social, political, and financial—had always seemed disproportionate to its small size.

The perpetual irony of the place was that aesthetically, it was quite appealing, in part due to a cluster of abandoned mill buildings that had once made of the town a bustling and prosperous community. Sadly, the quaintness was largely skin deep, and it was, in fact, this darker underlayment, stubbornly resistant to improvement, that had drawn David here, late at night, on his mission of self-redemption.

He knew he was on shaky ground, and that the sheriff, his father, Joe Gunther, and probably even his kid sister would be rolling their eyes had they known of his ambitions.

But they didn't—nor would they—if he had anything to say about it, at least not until he'd achieved his goal.

He'd never been one to strut around or put on airs. He harbored no embarrassment about loving his parents and seeing the value of a good education, or being patriotic, or having integrity. He believed in all that. But he'd been unnerved by what happened to him—perhaps more so because it had ended so benignly. The sheriff might have hoodwinked the press, but law enforcement's rumor mill was something else, and Dave knew all too well how that bunch loved to rag on one of their own, especially if he was young, unproved, and the son of a colleague.

For Dave, there was no question that they be delivered a more positive final impression—and that he'd be the one to deliver it.

That wishful thought remained in the future, however. Right now, he was staking out the address of someone he knew nothing about, except for what he'd read on a rap sheet, which wasn't much. If it hadn't been for the tattoo, in fact, Dave would never have stopped at Steve Hobart's name. Hobart appeared as just another aging teenager, hanging out with the wrong people and trying hard to become one of them.

Two hours into his vigil, Dave spotted Hobart leaving his apartment house, highlighted by a nearby streetlamp. Even before he raised his binoculars for a closer look, Dave knew that he'd located his man. Seeing the clear and colorful rendering of the dragon on Hobart's left shoulder, peering out from under the trendily torn shirtsleeve, came only as confirmation.

Along with that recognition, however, came an unexpected problem. Dave was a cop—no longer simply a young man near bursting with outrage. His actions involved greater consequences than those of a civilian who could simply confront an opponent and bash him over the head. Hobart had done more than debase David Spinney—he'd also broken the law and violated the uniform. It was that law and uniform that had to be honored now—Dave's personal restitution would have to follow.

This did not involve a belabored internal debate. Dave had watched his father act within the same constraints for as long as he could recall. More, he'd seen Lester live by an equally strict moral code in his dealings with his wife, and children, and the people he encountered every day.

David therefore knew where the right course lay, but it did make him angry.

“Fine,” he conceded, lowering the binoculars and starting up the truck as Hobart climbed into his own car and backed out of the potholed driveway.

Dave's dilemma was that he had no proof of Hobart's guilt beyond his own split second's glimpse of a popular tattoo. Also, he couldn't account for Hobart's confederates, had no idea of what alibi he might tender in his own defense, and had no corroboration or witnesses to line up against him.

As a result, now that he had his target identified, Dave needed time to build a case.

Satisfied at last, if missing the gratification of a cleansing outburst of violence, Dave turned on his radio, pulled into the street, and slipped into Hobart's wake.

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Full disclosure, boss.”

Joe sat back and cupped his cheek in his hand, eyeing Willy from across the office. He'd suspected something amiss when he noticed Sammie's averted glance upon her entrance moments earlier.

Lester stopped typing, anticipating whatever might be coming.

“Do tell,” Joe said.

Willy's phrasing was conspicuously precise. “In the best interests of all concerned, I will not go into details, but let's say that if you or any member of the public were to drive down River Road in West Chesterfield and pause opposite the Lucas residence, you might be able to pick out three very well hidden surveillance cameras, aimed at that house.”

He paused, allowing Joe to ask, with equal care, “By ‘opposite,' I'm assuming you mean across the road, and therefore not on land belonging to Mr. Lucas.”

“That is correct.”

“Are there any visible connections between the Lucas property and those three cameras?”

“None. In fact, if you had the right equipment, and used it standing in the public right-of-way, you'd probably discover that the radio signals from those units are directed right at the house, and use its router to be broadcast wherever.”

Joe smiled. Willy smiled back. Sam and Les watched them both.

“I guess, then,” Joe finally said, “that I can only express my gratitude for your extraordinary eyesight—honed to a sharp edge during your employment by the United States government—and for bringing this observation to our attention.”

Willy sidled around to his chair and sat down. “You're very welcome.”

Lester was shaking his head. “Are you two done? I think we can now say, if we're ever deposed or put on the stand, that this discovery fell into the ‘plain view' category.” He clapped his hands. “Nicely done.”

Joe let loose a frown in Willy's direction, silently challenging the truth of his story. “If you say so.”

Sammie moved the conversation along. “If it is what it looks like, who has him under surveillance?”

“And why?” Lester added.

Sam was reading her computer screen. “Boss, after BB was found dead and we all split up to check alibis, it says here that you went back to Lucas's, quote-unquote, without effect. I take it that means you got the same treatment as last time?”

“Right.”

She took them all in with her next question. “Has anyone ever set eyes on this guy?”

“Presumably his old drinking buddies,” Lester said, based on his conversation with Jimmy Stringer and Carlo Fuentes. “Although I don't think I asked them when that last was.”

“Stringer's wife,” Sammie offered, “told me she hadn't seen Lucas since Ridgeline sold to Vermont Amalgamated and BB and Johnny went their separate ways.”

“That was years ago,” Joe said.

“She also said Johnny kept to himself.”

“What about the fusion report on Lucas?” Joe asked. “What's that say about him?”

Lester read from a printout. “I just ran that off. The fusion center collects everything, as you know—local tax records, driver's license, car registrations, houses sold and bought, criminal offenses, marriages and divorces, family members, even next-door neighbors. Given all that, Lucas looks boring as hell. Married to the same woman for ages, nothing criminal, no kids, owns a boat, stuff like that.”

“When's it say he was born?” Joe asked.

“Nineteen forty-seven.”

“And when's the first entry on that report?”

“Bingo,” Willy said from the sidelines. “Great minds think alike.”

“Nineteen sixty-nine,” Lester responded after a moment's scrutiny. He glanced up. “You thinking witness protection?”

“Wouldn't be the first time,” Joe said.

“Especially back then,” Willy contributed, looking contemplative. “Wild and woolly times.”

Joe made a sour face. “Great. If that's true, there's no way the marshals're going to tell us about it—not without a warrant, and there's no way we have grounds for one of those.”

Willy and Sam remained silent as Lester asked, “Even after all this time? Couldn't we claim exigent circumstances?”

“I'll try,” Joe said. “But I already know the answer. They're rigid about that. Always have been. And it's not like we have a smoking gun.”

He looked at his other two squad members. “No suggestions?”

“Not for that,” Willy said vaguely.

Joe studied him a moment, wondering where Willy's mind had wandered—and what therefore lay in store.

He turned his attention to Les and Sammie. “Well, I do. I think it's time we buddy up with New Hampshire law enforcement and stop being so polite about meeting Johnny Lucas. We need to put an interview into him, sooner the better. That'll also tell us if he's in witness protection, and fast, too, if I know the marshals. By the way, with what Willy has just given us, are any of you still thinking the Hank and BB murders are unrelated?”

No one answered.

“It's not like they both don't need solving. That being said, I think we should really focus on that connection as our primary working theory, especially given some of the other oddball angles that're cropping up.”

“Like my son?” Lester proposed.

“For example,” Joe agreed. “Any developments there?”

“Not really,” Lester told them. “Dave's back on the job. The press seems to have swallowed the sheriff's cover story, and the real scoop hasn't leaked so far. Meanwhile, the cops chasing it down can't find much to chew on, so I don't know if it'll be hitting the fan or not.”

“Well, keep in touch with them—with an eye to what we're working on.”

“What the hell
are
we working on, exactly?” Willy challenged, back from his reverie. “Is it really an avalanche, starting with Hank being dug up? If it is, it's not moving much. We have no leads on his case, no leads on who shot Barrett, no clue if Dave's adventure is related or not, and now we maybe got some wild card involving Johnny Lucas—whose name may not be Johnny Lucas.”

Joe was nodding as Willy finished. “I couldn't agree more. But the avalanche image may be to our advantage. We just need to figure out which part to kick loose to discover how everything is interconnected.”

“If it is,” Lester said.

“Right,” Joe continued. “Right now, the Barrett case is on the hot plate. For sanity's sake, we better assume that whoever shot him is still alive and well, and still in the neighborhood. Also, if we think that BB was killed because of Hank resurfacing as a homicide, then maybe that tells us the triggerman was also around forty years ago.”

“Triggerman or -woman,” Willy pointed out.

“You mean Sharon?” Joe asked.

“Or Lacey Stringer,” Sam threw in, adding, “And don't leave out Bonnie Barrett, the grieving rich widow, in case we're wrong about the two murders being linked.”

“All right,” Joe picked up. “Start with Sharon. Loved Hank, but tossed him out because of another woman—according to her. She's then wooed by BB, but rejects him with no hard feelings. Everything ends happily ever after, unless she killed Hank because of his philandering. Question is: How and with whom? She couldn't've pulled it off alone. And even if she had help, what happened to him—or her—and why did she now kill BB?”

No one answered, knowing his question to be rhetorical.

“Lacey,” he continued. “She loved Hank, too, which as Willy pointed out last time, is one of the four
L
s. Following that logic, did she kill him? Same questions as for Sharon, if so. Why? Who with, et cetera?”

He took them in with a glance, waiting for objections or suggestions. Again, there was silence.

“Last but not least, Bonnie. It's true that there are no indications she goes back to the Hank era, but as Sam said, she's sitting pretty now. Did she make that happen?”

“She has an alibi,” Lester said. “Complete with witnesses.”

“Moving on to the men,” Joe spoke without pause, although nodding once in Lester's direction as acknowledgment. “Fuentes, Stringer, Neathawk, Greg Mitchell, and Lucas are the ones we know about. Tom Capsen died.”

“Neathawk's dead, too,” Lester announced. “I meant to tell you. Just got confirmation. Car crash out west, twenty years ago.”

“Fuentes also has an alibi for the BB shooting,” Sammie said.

“Why not list Lucas first?” Willy asked. “He's the elephant in the room.”

“I don't want to ignore the others in his favor,” Joe explained. “But what about Lucas, Willy? You have anything on him we don't?”

Joe saw Sam cut Willy a look, but the latter merely shook his head. “Only what I told you. He is the one with the other
L
in the game, though: loot. He worked under Hank and became BB's number two man after Hank left the picture. Which means this could be a lot easier than we're making it. After Hank was established as a murder victim instead of a disappearing act, it may have thrown BB and Lucas into conflict somehow.”

“Winner take all?” Lester said.

“More like loser take his story to the grave,” Willy suggested. “It still doesn't explain who's got Lucas under surveillance—unless BB rigged those cameras before he was croaked.”